


rooted deep in your bones

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Caretaking, Chronic Pain, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Gen Work, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 01, everyone just wants to take care of jonathan sims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27629956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: "The reasonforpain is your body letting you know something’s wrong. That you shouldrest,”Martin stressed, “not push through it.”“If that’s the case, I wouldn’t leave my house.” He didn’t mean to say that. Not really. Itwastrue, sure; there was always some vague low-level point of pain, usually. It was just– it was justcommon.Sometimes he didn’t even notice it, so ingrained in his daily life.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 31
Kudos: 244





	rooted deep in your bones

The ache in his back was the start of nothing good, Jon knew. It didn’t stop him from hoping to swallow a couple of paracetamol and get on, but… 

He kneaded his knuckles against his spine and turned the water on just shy of too hot during his morning shower. Then swallowed down the pills and set to getting ready for the day, at least content in the knowledge it was only the _archives,_ that he didn’t have a day full of physical activity waiting for him. Small mercies.

… although, he wouldn't put it past some creature to show up and end up running them around the Institute, truth be told.

Nothing did, in the end. He went home with his pain pills wearing off, cursing the fact that _sitting,_ trying to rest, made his back ache just as much if not more than it had this morning. An active job or a desk job, there was no happy medium when it felt like your body was falling apart. He’d say he was too young for this, but… well. That excuse had never held up before, and he wasn’t getting any younger. Probably didn’t bode well for how he’d feel later in life, but one step at a time.

Pain pills, again, and Jon crawled into bed early, hoping to sleep it off.

  
  


No rest for the weary. In the morning, for a moment he’d thought… but no, the ache was still there, still real and twinging beneath his skin. Christ. Maybe he’d ought to have a soak tonight, or search out the heating pad, but that seemed so far away. So much hassle, bent over his hallway drawers that were packed full of linens and towels and the like, having to sort through them just to find the heat source. Nevermind an extension cord. The thought of having to do it all was exhausting. Even drawing a bath, but perhaps that was slightly more manageable. Maybe.

But later. Work first. Jon tossed the paracetamol in his bag for a top-up later, certain he’d need it, and hurried off to catch the train.

It was going to be a long day.

  
  


“God.” 

He didn’t mean to say it out loud, didn’t mean to drop the box so heavily onto the desk, but did that ever hurt. And yes, he knew that was probably part of the problem; he probably didn’t move boxes correctly, for all the work safety signs plastered in the break room– _lift with your legs, not your back!_ What did that even _mean?_ Bad enough he was perpetually scrawny enough to have a difficult time moving through some of the things here anyway, nevermind having aches and pains to worry about, too. He couldn’t let a little of that get in the way of work. He had to get through it.

Still, it was an _actual_ pain in the… in general areas he’d rather not be exerting right now.

“Okay in here, Jon?” Sasha popped around the corner, boxes of her own in hand. Scouring the archives for one _shred_ of information to tie into this case… ugh.

“Yeah.” He dropped his hand from where he’d been unconsciously rubbing the ache at his back again, and reached for his own files. “Just– _so_ much to go through, you know?”

“Yeah.” She jiggled the box she was carrying like it was nothing. Jon envied her, a little, the same height if not the same build as he was, and she was unaffected. Probably not feeling the throb of her pulse deep in her bones. He didn’t wish it on her, of course not, but just… how nice it would be, if his blasted paracetamol would _actually_ do something and the pain stayed properly away. “Tim and Martin’s already gone through two, I’m taking this to them.” She hefted it up higher and then looked at Jon, a little _too_ close, like she hadn’t been watching his telltale indicators of pain. Or maybe because. “Yell if you need me? I don’t mind being gopher.”

“Oh. Er, no. Thank you,” he added, awkward if not grateful. He was fine. He’d be fine. Pushing through, resting later. “I’m sorting here. It’s a bit faster.” And he would really have it in for himself if he lugged each of these boxes back to his office.

“Sure,” Sasha agreed. “Just if you do. Actually,” she added, eyebrows drawn together in a tiny, joking frown, “why are _we_ doing this? They’re, like, a whopping six feet, sat down on their arses. Both of them.”

… she had a point. Jon smiled, wry. “You usually volunteer for labor intensive work.”

“I do because I _can,_ but it doesn’t mean I should _have_ to,” she said, matter of fact, and they might have had a row starting on their hands if Sasha hadn’t been _smiling_ the way she was. Still, Jon was fairly sure Tim wasn’t going to hear the end of it. _“Men,”_ she finished, “hopeless. The lot of them,” and Jon had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself laughing. 

“Shouldn’t that actually include me, then?”

“Oh, no, you’re an outlier, Jon. Always have been.” She stuck her tongue out, and now Jon rolled his eyes.

“Cheers.”

“Uh huh!” She winked and headed for the door. “Back in a bit. I’ll tell them to come get the tall ones down.”

_And submit us to the endless teasing,_ Jon didn’t say. He didn’t have to. And even if it did break open the ‘tiny’ can of worms again, he had to admit he… didn’t mind as much as he usually might, just now.

He kneaded his fingers beneath his rib cage, and got back to work.

  
  


He absolutely did _not_ intend the noise that came out of his mouth as he eased himself out of his chair, but, Christ. His body was stiff. And in pain. So the sharp, jabbing sensation that knocked the air out of his lungs was so far out of his control. Right.

Didn’t stop the minor annoyance (embarrassment) and it certainly didn’t stop Tim’s head whipping around to look at him. And, yes, he immediately broke into a grin Jon desperately wanted to wipe off his face.

“Wow, boss. You’re sounding more and more like an old man everyday,” he joked. Easy, light. It _was_ a joke; Tim teased like that. Jon had barely known what it _was_ to be teased like that, at first, but common now, and he didn’t mean anything by it. He didn’t know, couldn’t know.

Except, in that moment, Jon was _tired._ Worn down, a bit, probably, a few days on with this stupid pain. He couldn’t help _telling_ him, and honesty was slipping out of his mouth before he could convince himself to go along with the general teasing camaraderie. “Would you believe it if I said I _feel_ like an old man?” His own version of a joke, even though it… wasn’t.

“I mean… _yeah,”_ Tim said, a little more serious. He was like an open book, Tim. “Desk jobs aren’t great for your body. And you slouch.”

“I do not _slouch,”_ Jon retorted. “Just– sometimes, if the statement pulls me in–” Tim just _looked_ at him, and Jon sighed. _“Fine._ But so do you.” He stepped out of his office to all kinds of _weird_ behavior from Tim: sitting cross-legged on the floor next to his desk, having his feet propped on the desk, laying sideways across the chair– God, Jon hurt worse just _thinking_ about it.

“And I’m– no offense– in better shape than you,” Tim said. “When’s the last time you exercised?”

“I know that _cannot_ be a jab at my weight.”

Tim laughed, because. Well. It was ludicrous. “No, that was a jab at you probably not having been on a walk in the past year.”

“I walk,” Jon said stiffly. “Every day. For the train.”

_“Not_ the same thing,” Tim said. “Here. Let me?” He held up a hand, gesturing to Jon’s back.

He didn’t know if that was thrilling or terrifying. The promise of… touch, but having to grit his teeth through the pain. Or planning to, anyway. Jon held very still, but… despite himself, he did turn a little bit towards Tim’s hand. And he didn’t have to worry, much; of course, it was… it was _difficult,_ not to be tense. He meant, he was in pain. And there came a point where you just _held_ yourself a certain way because you were used to it hurting, but… Tim was careful, hands cautious but firm. And it felt… nice. Fine, it felt _nice,_ of course it felt nice. He wanted to relax into it but didn’t really dare, because if he even gave into a modicum of relief, he’d be in for a hell of a time when it all came back again– 

“I’m not trained or anything,” Tim said, “but, I mean, I’ve done a bit of reading, if you need me to do this proper…”

… not to mention– Jon felt his cheeks warm, minutely– this was… intimate. Tim, touching. Allowed, of course, but rarely a thing Jon was comfortable seeking out… “No,” he said, and forced himself to step away. “This is… that was fine, Tim. Thank you.”

“If you say so.” Tim just shrugged, letting him step away. “But offer’s there, if you need.”

“I’ll– I’ll keep it in mind,” Jon allowed, continuing out of his office for another spot of tea as originally planned.

  
  


“Jon?”

Jon sat up quickly, and then regretted that, but– but that was pretty on par. And if there was one thing he _didn’t_ want to bring down upon him right now, it was Martin’s _worry._ But too late. Maybe too late. Martin was looking down at him with that concern knitted into the frown on his face, and… damn. “Martin, yes, you– what did you need?”

“I…” And _there_ was the resolve, hardening the uncertainty in Martin’s face. “Alright, I _know_ you hate it when we try to bring up your, well, _health–”_

“Martin…”

_“– no,”_ Martin interrupted. “You’ve been… I don’t know. Weird? God, I just mean– you’ve been in pain, right? You just– you _hold_ yourself like you’re in pain. It seems like… it seems like everything’s _uncomfortable,_ and– and you’ve been holding yourself up with, like, your desk, or the wall, or–” He faltered, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. “Look, I know it’s none of my business–”

“It’s not–”

“– but I’m– my mum, she was a bit… she did that a bit, too, sometimes. So I can tell _something’s_ wrong, with you. Do you need, erm, ibuprofen, or anything? Because I have some, I can get you–”

“No,” Jon interrupted, trying to be… just trying to be firm. Gentle, but firm. “I’ve already– I’ve already taken something. Paracetamol. This afternoon, before lunch.”

“Oh. Okay. But, if it’s muscle or joint pain, you should _really_ take ibuprofen instead? I know neither are really great for your body, but if paracetamol doesn’t help…” 

“I– yes,” Jon replied. He knew that. He did. God, if they didn’t muck about with his stomach, though. “I might try it. It’s just… it’s mostly just waiting it out.”

And that didn’t seem to sit well with Martin at all. “‘Waiting it out’ isn’t… that really _isn’t_ a good way to deal with it.”

“And covering it up with pain medication is?”

“I… _fine,_ but you still need to take it easy. The reason _for_ pain is your body letting you know something’s wrong. That you should _rest,”_ Martin stressed, “not push through it.”

“If that’s the case, I wouldn’t leave my house.” He didn’t mean to say that. Not really. It _was_ true, sure; there was always some vague low-level point of pain, usually. It was just– it was just _common._ Sometimes he didn’t even notice it, so ingrained in his daily life. Sometimes– now, ha– he did. Either way, he didn’t _really_ want to see Martin’s stricken reaction to it, so he kept making annotations on the latest report he was working. “I’m _fine,_ Martin. Really.”

“You… s–so, it’s, um, chronic? It’s not– you didn’t just lift boxes wrong or something?” 

Chronic. That was a word. It had been thrown at him a few times, the rare times things had gotten bad enough to warrant a doctor’s visit. “I didn’t injure myself. Not like that,” he said wryly.

“Okay,” Martin said cautiously. “That’s… I mean, that’s not _good,_ obviously, but… you… you could still stay home. For a day or two. Take a hot bath, or, um, a heated blanket? Or a weighted one?”

“That…” That actually sounded like an okay idea. A heated blanket. Less hassle than a bath, and he didn’t have to worry about the water going cold or turning his skin wrinkly. “… might actually be nice, I think.”

“O–Oh! Right. If you need one, the heated one, I mean, I can– you can borrow mine? I can bring it in tomorrow or–”

“That’s not necessary–”

“I could even bring it to your place–”

“I can order one,” Jon interrupted. 

“Yeah, but you’re in pain _now,”_ Martin retorted. “You can use mine until you get one ordered. Not like I’m really using it for anything.”

“I–” Christ, he was right. And Jon was just worn down enough to agree. “Right, then. If you… if you’re sure?”

“Definitely,” Martin agreed. “I’ll bring it in tomorrow. You can– I mean, you can even plug it in and take a nap halfway through, if your meds don’t work.”

“I’ll take the ibuprofen, don’t worry.”

“Good. And, ummm… I don’t really know what else, now. Stretches, although that doesn’t really help now… oh! Epsom salts! With the bath. That can help, too. Or, maybe.” He laughed slightly. “Couldn’t hurt.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Jon echoed. Really, it couldn’t, at this point. And these were… these were actually good ideas. Things he wouldn’t have thought of because he was just so… _used_ to having to deal with these flare-ups. Things he wouldn’t have thought of because he was, well, er– not very good at taking care of himself, was he? God. “Thank you, Martin,” he said, honestly. “I tend to not… I tend to just…”

“Ignore it?” Martin said crisply, and huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Wouldn’t have guessed that. Not from Jonathan Sims,” he… joked. It was almost a joke.

Jon _almost_ joked back in kind. “Hey, now,” he retorted.

Martin smiled, taking a step back for the door. “I’ll go make you another cuppa. I know it’s close to the end of day, but– oh, _please_ tell me you’re going home at a normal time tonight. No staying late?”

“No… I won’t. I promise.”

“Good. Thank you.” And _then_ Martin decided to look sheepish, finally settling in with the idea that he was _lecturing_ his boss (but then, not so uncommon with the whole ‘taking care of yourself’ thing. Jon almost smiled again.) “I’ll, uh, I’ll get you that tea. Back in a minute.”

“Right. Thank you.”

“Right,” Martin repeated, then nodded before he headed out.

Jon sagged a little once he was gone, not holding himself _quite_ as tense as he had been. Slouching again, wanting to put his head back on the desk… and knowing full well that wouldn’t help with the pain, so he didn’t. But he had a tiny plan, now, mostly of Martin’s making, and there was always… there was always Tim, too. The massage, if it came to that. 

He had options. Maybe it was time to start taking advantage of them.

… he’d have to thank Martin again, and Tim. Sasha, too. All so… worried. That was… nice, actually.

For now, though, he was going to try to relax, so Jon settled in to do just that.

**Author's Note:**

> in honor of the fact my body will not stop fucking HURTING, Jon gets chronic pain. (those hcs that Jon has to walk with a cane sometimes? please I love those 🥺😔) thankfully, in the fictional setting, this sad man has a few good friends that want to make sure he's okay. god bless Martin for making sure to push when enough is Enough. Jon absolutely needs someone to tell him when enough is Enough, silly man
> 
> (me @ jon and me @ me: sit up and stop slouching goddammit


End file.
